Seven
by Onigiri
Summary: Youji's never going to learn. Death. Yaoi.


1 SEVEN  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Ran or Youji. Or anyone else out of Weiss Kruez. I do however, own the characters that I make up. I also don't own the idea of the seven sins.  
  
Sin  
  
A hand, slender and pale, the result of delicate fingers and years of wearing gloves, ran through silken blonde strands. Loose curls that framed an angular face, eyes hidden away by a dark set of shades, a sigh breaking that perfect press of the lips. The exhale of breath turning into a furrow of mist curling upon the wind, the wind was dancing with his locks, beating against his scalp, his hand, was merely trying to calm their dance. The eyes close behind the lens, hidden, the expression of pain that was buried beneath his beauty. He was beautiful.  
  
One leg bent at the knee, the other following the length of the hood, of the car, he called, Seven. Seven, was his only remaining friend. He bore some pride in having a car like such. He bore pride, in being like such. Touched, loved, and unable to be touched, or be loved, for long. Infamous for one night stands, his name well spoken of in the red districts, a woman in the business might even allow him to play a night for free just to test the rumors of her friends. Words. The fingers of his bare hand now traveling down the length of his muscled arm, his forearms had strength built up from years of… being a florist, of course. A bitter laugh was lost to the howl of the wind.  
  
His car, was parked on the shoulder of a highway overlooking the city, a place he'd bring some girl lucky enough to be his date for the night. Lucky. He sneered, and the fingers found the tattoo marking his skin without having to look for it. It was almost as if he could feel the ink lines, though they were as smooth as the flesh touching over the curves. Tracing the wings of the tattoo, as if stroking a broken bird, his nails grazing over the word 'Sin', the reversed cross, the words underneath. He always felt the need to mutter them aloud to himself.  
  
"When you gonna learn?" He asked. Definitely, softer than the wind that was whistling in his ears, beating against the jacket, the long, worn indigo trench tied about his lean waist, rippling the folds of his black midriff trench. No, he supposed that he would never learn.  
  
"Do you know why I like this place?" Pausing.  
  
" Why? … It's every leisured night of my life… every soft touch… every embrace. The wind embraces me the same, fleeting touches." He chuckles, then shifts his arms so that he's got them crossed over his chest, laying on the hood of the car, his hair a halo of false gold around his head, eyes staring out at the forever shades darkened sky.  
  
"… Would you believe me…" His arms slid to uncross from each other, to slide under his head to support it, putting something between his skull and the hard metal, warm, still cooling from the ride up, but the heat was a comfort to him.  
  
" … Would you believe…?" But he wouldn't finish the sentence, it was a thing called pride that kept him from doing so. They hadn't kept in touch the way that they should've. Maybe they both needed their space. His fingers twitched where they were pressed under his elbows, each on the opposite one, flexing suddenly from the need for nicotine. His arms moved slightly in response, and he curled onto his side, lying there a moment, his arms around his head, curling in on himself. A sigh, released from his tension, unfurling as he slides off the hood and stands, crouched first before his lengthy legs straighten, and he stands, facing the wind a, letting it almost rip away the jacket he unties and holds between two breeze numbed fingers.  
  
He takes the time to straighten the jacket, sliding first one hand, then the other into the sleeves, and with a roll of his shoulders forward, his arms coming before his chest, the jacket slides on, creases at the shoulders meeting the muscles underneath them. He drags that glove paled hand through the blonde strands once more, another attempt to calm them, before he opens the door, there's a click, covered by the sound of air screaming, wailing. He steps into his car, and starts it, passenger seat empty, and even so, he curls his right arm around the seat, letting his hand dangle there, fingers curling against an imaginary shoulder.  
  
The car coming to life with a roar of the engine, just barely heard over the rushing wind, lapping up against the sides of the car, and the engine groans as he shifts gears, as if it, too, didn't yet want to leave this place. He blows an empty kiss to the wind, his unconditional lover, the press of fingers against moist lips before he's backing up, then turning onto the road to drive away from the shoulder, now, not the natural wind, but the wind caused by speed of his vehicle blowing back his curled bangs. Somewhere behind him, rose petals took to the air, gliding where they were blown from the shoulder. Scattering over the valley and its silence. Youji, again on the road, trying to out run it, before it, caught up to him.  
  
( Continued…) 


End file.
